


New Moon

by rachel614 (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, F/M, Post-TFP, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 07:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/rachel614
Summary: Yet somehow, fully deserved though it was, he had been unprepared for the lost warmth of Molly Hooper's eyes. She had listened to his stumbling explanation, his stumbling apology, his stumbling attempt to tell her that far from being the last person he ever thought of, she was so, so much more—And said, softly, "I'm done, Sherlock."He was silenced, instantly.----------------------Sherlolly Appreciation Week; Day 7: "I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."A really, really, angsty post TFP piece. With a happy ending, if you're willing to wade through the angst.





	New Moon

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a fun ride, folks. Here's my last piece for SAW, written in haste and completely unbeta'd, as pretty much all my things are.

_"No, of course you're not. You're my friend. We're friends."_

 

* * *

 

There were many wounds dealt by Eurus that day, but the cruelest was the destruction of a hard-won friendship.

In fairness, he knew, it had been a long time in coming. He had strained the fragile, precious bond between him and Molly Hooper to the breaking point, with lies and drugs and a callous disregard for the feelings of others. Eurus had only dealt the final, mortal blow.

 

Yet somehow, fully deserved though it was, he had been unprepared for the lost warmth of Molly Hooper's eyes. She had listened to his stumbling explanation, his stumbling apology, his stumbling attempt to tell her that far from being the last person he ever thought of, she was so, so much more—

And said, softly, "I'm done, Sherlock."

He was silenced, instantly. She didn't look sad. Just tired, very tired.

"It's not what happened. It's not what you—what _we_ —said. It's that I really, truly thought that you playing games with my heart. Treating me like an experiment. And that's not friendship."

"Please—Molly, I'll do better. Please, just let me—"

"It's not your fault." He looked at her, disbelief leaking even through his desperation. "Not wholly yours," she amended. "But I can't keep _giving_ when I feel this way, and I'm done trying."

He was silent for a long moment, before asking in a broken voice, "What then? Will you leave? Take a fellowship in another city, another country?"

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock. I'll still be here. But I don't want to see you, I don't want to talk to you. Use the lab on Meena's shift, and don't come here again." He looked at her, memorizing her features, finding no trace of doubt. He nodded, slowly.

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper," he said, and left.

 

* * *

 

 

Rebuilding his life was a slow and torturous process. Bakerstreet was in ruins. He was still recovering from the damages wreaked on his body by his drug use. John still had bad, awful days, and on those nights Sherlock was left the unlikely and ill-prepared caretaker of his tiny god-daughter. He was still coming to terms with long-suppressed memories, still tinged with horror.

And there were his own bad days, when no amount of chores or even the Work could distract him from the gaping, jagged hole in his heart.

Those were the nights he sat staring into the fire, a siren's call pulsing through his veins. Those were the nights when he rolled up his sleeves, tracing veins and half-healed scars, livid against his flesh. When his gaze was always, inexorably drawn to his phone, lying on the table a few feet away. A swift text, a discrete delivery. Sweet, all-too-brief oblivion. Those were the nights when, even as his hand stretched out, he felt the sting of her hand on his cheeks, heard her voice in his ringing ears.

_How dare you..._

Those were the nights when he admitted that Molly Hooper still owned him, body and soul. No matter that she did not wish to.

 

* * *

 

There came a time when Bakerstreet was rebuilt, his physical training back to the old regimen, when John smiled every day and when his small, damaged family, gathering together in a sterile white room for an exchange of music, slowly made their way towards something a little less broken.

He and John lived together again, hearing their cases in Bakerstreet. Sherlock bought a special chair for Rosie, and smiled every time she curled up in it, giggling infectiously.

He told himself that he was happy.

 

* * *

 

"He doesn't laugh anymore. Hardly ever smiles, except when he's with Rosie."

He froze on the stairs, his fingers stilling in their path along the wallpaper. John was speaking to someone. Someone who'd left the scent of lemon in the air, edged with the barest trace of formaldehyde. He closed his eyes, hardly able to bear breathing.

"I'm sorry, John. I can't—I'm not ready. I need more time."

He'd missed her voice. Even a highly trained memory can only do so much. After a time, the subtler characteristics began to fade. Eventually you struggled to call the sound—the feel, the scent—to mind at all. His thoughts circled tentatively around her words. Ready. More time? Like...Like she might come back.

He couldn't breath at all.

 

“More time for what?” John’s voice was exasperated, edging into anger. “For you to stop loving him? You tried that already, Molly, and look how it turned out.”

“That’s not fair. You know that’s not fair.”

“How is _any_ of this fair?” His voice was raised now, the familiar rage bleeding out, staining the world red. “Or is that what this is? Your revenge? To hurt him, to grind him into the dust until you think you’ve been repaid all the careless words and casual cruelties—”

“No! That’s not—I would never—” she broke off, her voice choked with a tears.

“No?” John said, his voice soft and deadly now. “Well, you’re doing a _really_ bloody good job of it.”

Silence. A small, choked sob. A heavy sigh, and soft footsteps.

“Oh, c’mere. I’m sorry, Molls. I just hate watching the two of you make yourselves so miserable. You two are—well, you’re both still alive. And if that—ever changed—you’d hate yourselves for wasting even a minute of it.”

“I’m sorry, John,” she said voice muffled. “I was just hurt so badly, and I’m—I’m _terrified._ ”

“He loves you. He really does. I’ve never seen him so destroyed as in that room, and since you left it’s like the light’s gone out of him. He’s hardly there.”

 

The world seemed to waver, black and red spots appearing in the corner of his vision. He drew in a deep, ragged breath, and fled, stumbling down the stairs on shaking knees.

 

* * *

 

 

He walked for hours.

And he’d thought he’d been doing so well.

 

He walked round and round all his old haunts, finally coming to a halt at a bench by the Thames. The sun set, the murky air set aglow in reds and golds. His thoughts circled and circled and chased their own tails. The city slowly came alight, the sounds of day fading into the noises of the night.

“You’re a very difficult man to find, Mr. Holmes.” He swallowed, hard.

“You have a way of seeing me where others do not,” he said, and was grateful for the evenness of his tone.

“I’m afraid the credit here was due to John. He has a tracker in your coat, apparently.” He couldn’t help the stiffening of his spine. Damn. He’d truly been slipping.

He heard soft steps beside him, and knew that if he turned his head just so, he’d see her.

“Sherlock,” she said, and her voice was pleading. “God knows I don’t deserve your attention—not after the last few months—but I want you to look at me when I say this.” A hard shudder ran through him. He took a few quick, sharp breaths, and turned his head.

She looked tired. Her eyes were red from crying, and she’d lost weight.

 She was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and it was a struggle to keep still.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered, and he wondered what agony was written on his face. “I’m so, so sorry.” She reached up a single, trembling hand, stopping a few centimetres from his face. They stood there frozen for a endless instant. She began to pull away, and his own hand flew up, grasping hers in a white-knuckled grip.

“ _Molly._ ” He knew he sounded desperate, and he didn’t care in the least. “Please—please don’t leave again.” She made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“No. I’m—I’m rather stuck with you, I’m afraid.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No. No, it’s not,” she said, weeping openly now. “I’ve been such a fool.” He laughed brokenly.

“If you’ve been a fool, I’ve been a complete and utter idiot.”

“I love you,” she said, and his heart stopped. She raised her other hand and cradled his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. Wiping away the salt of his tears. “I love you. Even if you’re an idiot, even if I’m hurt, _I love you_. Always.” He looked at her, breathing raggedly. Suddenly, his hands flew up to frame her face and he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her clumsily.

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” he whispered between salty kisses. “ _I love you_.”

 

Their fingers wove together, a silent promise of new beginnings, and the thinnest sliver of moon rose on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> It would never be easy for them. But they wanted nothing more than to make it _work_.


End file.
